


5 Times Harry Doesn’t Say “I Love You” and 1 Time He Does

by verywell



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Chronological, messed up tenses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 10:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19926784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verywell/pseuds/verywell
Summary: The telepathic tendencies could be an inevitable side-effect after years of recording music and jetting off on world tours but then again, he couldn’t say the same for the other boys.But Niall knows Harry’s temperaments and triggers, Harry’s habits and hideaways.





	5 Times Harry Doesn’t Say “I Love You” and 1 Time He Does

1.

“Thanks for the soup, Haz.”

Harry is trying not to overuse the phrase, he really is. It’s hard, though, when Niall is slumped over the breakfast tray, looking all groggy and rumpled in a college sweatshirt, eyes half-shut before the bowl. Harry pauses mid-exit, gazing at the sun rays that had snuck in through the blinds, illuminating Niall like a spotlight that always follows.

“Least I could do,” Harry shrugs.

That is all he can say to avoid chucking off his coat and parking himself at the armchair to wake Niall up every four hours to take this medication. He would easily undertake the responsibility of monitoring his temperature, rid the fever with a cold compress, keep him hydrated. He’d have no qualms about watching the hundredth re-run of Friends or consistently lose at FIFA because where else would he be, anyway?

“Now go do the show and leave me and my germs alone,” Niall manages before erupting into a sneeze, loud and strong. He sheepishly looks up, bleary eyes glinting like sapphire gems, gleaming with that cheeky Irish charm.

It’s ridiculous how that is all it takes to send Harry’s heart hammering wild, overwhelmed by the need to declare—

“Take care,” Harry says with a casual two-finger salute.

Niall pouts, lips pulled into a sad curve and wrist crooked in a weak wave.

And Harry leaves the hotel, emotions too large to contain packed into two words instead of three.

2.

“Scoot.”

Times like these, Harry doesn’t pretend to find out how Niall knows. The telepathic tendencies could be an inevitable side-effect after years of recording music and jetting off on world tours but then again, he couldn’t say the same for the other boys.

But Niall knows Harry’s temperaments and triggers, Harry’s habits and hideaways.

Not that Harry, who had embraced his role of the band’s golden boy, always went into hiding but walking out of a management meeting certainly warranted doing so. By his standards, such a behaviour was an anomaly, being the one who had the label bend to his whims and fancies without the slightest provocation. His easy charm, dimpled smile and earnest demands typed Harry as the inoffensive one, the forever grateful, the one whom management loved to please.

But this time, it can hardly count as a lack of professionalism or a “rockstar tantrum” (sneered by the EVP of Communications to Harry’s retreating back) if the meeting had turned out to be a ploy to discuss what was effectively a smear campaign against their ex-bandmate.

“Well done on a vice-free life but careful, Styles. Alonedom is an addiction,” Niall quipped, tapping his trainers against Harry’s side.

It didn't stop Harry from rolling his eyes when Niall dropped to his knees, shoving and prodding till he found a comfortable spot for himself beneath the Steinway & Sons piano. With a dramatic groan and lamenting his creaky bones, Niall stretched lengthwise to Harry, arms folded to cushion his head.

“Don’t think I’ll ever reach the point of addiction,” Harry said dryly, “Not with that tracking chip you’ve put in me.”

“More of an intuition than a chip,” Niall thoughtfully said, “Could you pick other places next time though? Carpet in this studio is mangy. You know my allergies.”

“Take a hint.”

Niall barked a laugh and Harry bit back a smile; no one could ever tire of the sound. Over the years, their voices had matured and their attitudes had toughened, but Niall’s laugh was still the pure burst of glee, the constant he could count on amidst their meteoric rise in fame. Whether he was reacting to a joke told by Bobby or the Queen, Harry would bet his fortune that his laugh would sound the same.

But to hear Niall laugh next to him just minutes after he had abandoned a meeting that had taken three weeks to coordinate, meant that he had ditched it, too.

Harry propped his head with an arm, just so he could catch a glimpse of Niall’s eyes to send a grateful smile his way.

But Niall was barely a breath apart, so startlingly close that Harry could sense the anxiety and concern beneath all that blue. And Harry knew, from the furrow of his brows, the tight press of his lips and his careful nonchalance, that Niall was worried. It was far from the exasperated look which their managers usually reserved for the other three whenever they threatened to cancel appearances, but it was akin to the look of helplessness he had when Harry once laughingly kissed him, drunk and sloppy, before dancing away with Zayn.

Harry held his gaze and Niall, eyes half-lidded, wasn’t looking away.

A beat passes, words of confession stuck in his throat; two beats as Harry desperately sought for courage; three beats, then a half-smile crept along Niall’s lips before he blinked, turning away with a chuckle.

The moment had passed.

Harry let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding, mirroring Niall and re-directing his focus to the belly of the piano. He folded his hands across his chest, regulating his breathing and quietening his heart. The next 20 minutes were spent alone in their separate minds, but together in the still and silence, every inhale and exhale tuned in synchrony as they laid beneath the baby grand.

Hiding was a source of comfort, at times, a form of protest but mostly, a quiet request to be found.

Harry was always found.

“Haz,” Niall whispered, “Let’s golf tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry promised.

3.

“What is she doing here?”

“I invited her to the party,” Niall smiled, eyes wide.

“Why would you do that?” Harry hissed, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to the nearest wall, “Are you crazy?”

“Wait,” Niall frowned, “Not even a ‘ _thank you’_? Not even a ‘ _You’re such a great friend, Nialler!_ ’”

Harry stared at him squarely, “There’s a reason why we’re not together, Niall.”

“And how was I supposed to know how it ended? You've been moping around for months. I thought you missed her.”

Harry breathed deep before settling his wine glass on the nearest table, “I have to leave.”

“What? Harry. No. What the fuck.”

“Not all of us are blessed with the proclivity to stay friends with their exes,” Harry shouted over his shoulder.

He dodged past the crowd, curls flashing beneath the strobes as he made a beeline for the exit, Niall hot on his heels. He stumbled into one of the waiters balancing a tray full of deviled eggs, raising a hand in apology before disappearing past the rooftop stairwell and down to the elevator landing. He hurried into the awaiting cabin, breathing hard, aggressively pushing the button to the basement before his chaser could catch up.

_Shit_ , he thought when a pale skinny arm stuck through the closing doors, which rolled back open like a taunt.

On the other side, Niall was glaring, cheeks flushed red, dagger eyes a fiery blue.

“You’re always doing that!” Niall shouted as soon as the doors shut.

“Doing what now?”

“Keep mum! Shut us out! Do you know how much Liam worried himself sick when you had that accident on that Segway last week? He thought you were trying to hurt yourself! And you know it was Louis who convinced Paul to have the doctor you like travel with us just in case you needed someone to talk to? Because God forbid you talk to us! Or hang out. Or eat, for god’s sake. Some context would be great, but no, not a hope!”

“I don’t owe anyone anything. And I’m especially not regaling you with details about my life,” Harry said narrowly, arms crossed.

“That girl Lou introduced you to—does no one else deserve a shot? You refuse to try! And we’re on tour. Detaching during interviews and ditching soundchecks are fine?”

“Please,” Harry rolled his eyes, “Stop your lecture.”

The elevator jerked to a stop. Without even waiting for the doors to fully open, Harry shoved past Niall, boots clicking against the concrete as he marched out to the private parking space where the driver had promised to wait.

“Oy!” Niall bellowed, snatching Harry’s elbow.

“Out of everyone,” Harry spun around to face his bandmate, wrenching his arm free, “ _You_ out of everyone would know I’ve had enough high-profile dates engineered for the value of tabloid fodder. The last thing I need is another one set up, least of all, by you.”

“I don’t know what kind of circle you’re associating with or what ridiculous NDA you signed that you can’t talk to me about it! But are you expecting me to watch you go in a downward spiral like a bystander? You know what, Harry? I’m not a fucking bystander!” Niall thundered, “I’m your friend!”

“And that’s all you’ll ever be!” Harry yelled, “So don’t try to manage my life for me!”

Niall flinched.

Harry’s chest was heaving, throat constricting, expression knotted in anger. He had never lost his temper at Niall before—no one had, and Harry wanted to apologize, to beg Niall to understand how he was losing sight of himself.

“Harry,” Niall began softly, approaching him, “Haz. Just talk to me.”

It was so tempting to tell Niall how it was getting harder and harder every day to separate truth from fiction, how every day was a challenge to scrape whatever control he had left over his life.

It all began at a party where they were introduced by a mutual friend, when Harry found out, after riding a high of star-struck excitement, that the introduction had been designed by both managements. The plan was set in motion—a calendar of dates secured, complete with paparazzi tip-offs and matching jewellery.

There was not much to talk about as they made their public appearances; what mattered was the evidence. Holding hands had never felt more mechanical and smiling became a chore. They could have become great friends and writing partners, Harry thought, if she wasn’t too haughty and he wasn’t too afraid of being a disappointment.

The relentless campaign invaded all spheres of his life, both public and private, putting him on a perpetual tailspin and a fear for saying “no”. Zayn’s eating disorder suddenly made sense.

Just two months short of the agreement, Harry demanded out, thinking he could finally breathe, that it was the end.

But songs were spun and singles were released—his reputation as a philanderer was cemented and hers of a songstress flourished. The damage was done. Certain things were created in the name of P.R. but will also outlive its existence in lyrics, blind items, and clickbait. It was a stunt that outdid itself; one that divided fanbases, spawned theories, fashioned public images and self-fulfilling prophecies. Until today, Harry had no idea who was getting the better end of the bargain.

Harry was already dialling for his driver, deserting Niall by the steps once the car sped into sight.

“ _You know, Niall_ ,” Harry texted him that night hoping he would understand, “ _You’re one of the only real things left in my life right now, so please. Just be my friend._ ”

Niall appeared in a record time of fifty-seven seconds at his hotel door which Harry sullenly opened, eyes downcast and hands buried in his pockets. He remained unmoving as Niall took him into his arms, lashes tickling his skin, palm repeatedly sweeping his back till his body finally relented, head surrendering to Niall’s steady shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Haz,” Niall mumbled to his neck, “I’m here.”

Harry believes him, wants so much to say those words but now couldn’t.

Niall is real. Niall is his totem in a world where nothing was sacred. And now that his heart was just another commodity, Harry had to be careful about whom he was letting in.

"Promise me you'll talk to the doctor tomorrow?"

Harry only clung on tighter.

4.

Harry could listen to Niall talk about Ireland forever.

They could be lounging backstage in the green room and Niall would be waxing lyrical about Irish golfers. Harry could be burning one of his scented candles and Niall would wistfully reminisce the warmth of turf fires during winter. It was no surprise Irish slang would be heard amongst the tour crew, too, infected by Niall’s Irishisms as he joins them during their smoke breaks to light up the occasional fag.

And now, they were at a radio show and Niall was going on about how unsafe American pubs were with steins and dartboards—things which never would be permitted in Irish ones.

Harry’s heart swells at how much pride Niall has for his country and how proud his country should be of Niall. He has single-handedly launched a promotional campaign for Ireland, with custom striped microphones, Irish jigs at concerts and insistence on celebrating St. Patrick’s Day no matter where they were in the world.

“I envy you,” Harry remarked when they’re back on the tour bus, having takeout lunch from In-N-Out.

“I envy me, too. Look at me; such a studmuffin,” Niall said, in all seriousness.

“That you are,” Harry responded, deadpan, “Now come to me. Oh, baby.”

Niall gave him a salacious wink before resuming eating his burger.

“Stoke my ego, Styles. Pray tell.”

“Back at the radio interview, you spoke about Ireland again.”

“Can’t help it,” Niall shrugged, “It’s all I know.”

“No, listen,” Harry placed his burger down, “If anyone were to ask, ‘ _Where is home, Niall?_ ’ You would say ‘ _Ireland’_ in a heartbeat.”

“Couldn’t say Russia now, could I? Ireland’s where I grew up.”

“That’s exactly it,” Harry explained, “To you, home is a place. Somewhere with a name. A country or a town. The image of a landscape. Like cliffs, or grass, even fog. I envy that.”

“Wouldn’t you count Holmes Chapel as home?”

“Of course,” Harry agreed, “But the feeling of being rooted to the geography isn’t there. Of being a part of something bigger than yourself. Am I losing you?”

“No, mate,” Niall furrowed his brows, pondering, “Go on.”

“When it comes down to it, it’s all about the land, isn’t it? The music and literature are about the land. The food that you’re raised on are grown from home soil, nurtured by the elements and the toil of those who came before. Dairy, beer, poultry, potatoes—all harvested from Irish ground. Even golf; it’s a sport to be played in the beauty of the landscape and calls for a relationship with the terrain. _You_ are Irish in all sense of the word.”

Niall laughed at Harry’s enthusiasm, “Do you want to be Irish, Haz?”

“Wouldn’t mind it,” Harry shrugged, “What’s the fastest way in?”

“Marriage.”

“Any mail-order brides or groom where you're from?” Harry grinned.

Niall preened and puffed his chest, “Not sure, but I’m male and fully in-order,” he gave a suggestive look at his nether regions.

“Shall I ring you up, then?”

Niall batted his eyes, offering his grease-slicked hand before Harry’s face. Harry swatted it away before he allowed himself to kiss it.

“So,” Niall asked, “What is your idea of home then?”

Harry won’t say he builds homes out of people because that was foolish and dangerous.

“Well,” Harry began slowly, “I’m not positive if I can define it, personally. I don’t think I have a kinship with the UK, like you do.”

“Home is not just about land, Haz. Home harks back to the past,” Niall pursed his lips, “Of memories and childhood years.” 

Harry found himself humming in agreement. Sometimes, it’s fixing himself snack at 2:00am and putting Gemma or Anne on the phone while the rest of the bus sleeps. Or hunched over his Moleskin in the privacy of his bunkbed, stringing memories into music just like he did during his days with White Eskimo.

But oftentimes, home is Niall with his guitar slung over his shoulder, catching his eye and grinning at him from across the stage, bright and beautiful like a star in the midnight sea. In the studio, flexing their lyrical lexicon, laughing at how “asses” rhymes with “glasses” and feeling like they could be doing this forever.

Harry thinks home is the promise of future, too.

“What do I know, Nialler? All I know is that,” Harry sighed dramatically, veiling the three words at the tip of his tongue with a broad smile, “Home hasn’t found me yet.”

Niall threw a fry at him, “That’s a cop out.”

Even if the earth went off-kilter, ultimately, home is where Harry knows he loves and is loved. Like how Niall loves his homeland, Harry knows his feeling of home is not misplaced.

5.

“This is quite an elaborate plan you’ve cooked up,” Niall laughed in his ear, “All these babes and blokes for me?” 

“If you so wish?” Harry answered, dead certain the mentioned babes and blokes were practically their tour family and music friends.

“I so wish,” Niall grinned, throwing his arms around Harry’s neck, planting a wet smack on his cheek.

Harry laughed; he was already drunk way before the party had properly begun.

It was Niall’s belated birthday celebration and since the boys were all in London after the end of their final world tour, they had planned a small private party with some friends and crew members. Niall had suspected the surprise of course, probably from his bad habit of sneaking glances at peoples’ iMessages, and had shamelessly texted requests (“Guinness”, “karaoke”, “green M&Ms”, “dress code: no phones”, “less than 100 guests, ban gifts”) a week before the party took place.

It was so easy to watch Niall blend into the space, to join Niall as he danced and downed beers with his guests, then belt out Bon Jovi duets with Liam all within the safe and private environment where the existence of lenses was temporarily suspended. Louis took charge of silly games, which included a lewd version of pin-the-tail, and a lucky draw where the prizes to be won involved the birthday boy.

But it was Harry’s lap that Niall fell into once he was ready to leave.

“Ready to go?” Harry grinned, hands supporting the small of his back.

“Come home with me!” Niall crowed, his conical party hat slipping of his head as grabbed Harry’s wrist to stand.

By then, the party was nearing over, crowd thinning out as they waved goodbye to the remaining guests. The banner tacked to the jamb of the entrance was now swinging precariously and the gold and green helium-filled balloons were bobbing about like seahorses, gathered at one corner of the bar.

When the car arrived, they ducked out of the pub and piled into the SUV. They settled backseat and Harry reached for a bottle of water, ready to flush the alcohol out of their systems. Uncapping it, he handed the bottle to Niall, his free hand busying with the air conditioning control of the car. 

But Harry turned to his right when the bottle remained in his hand, unclaimed.

Niall had turned to his side, a leg folded onto the leather and head leaning against the headrest.

He blinked slowly at Harry, shooting him a lazy smile.

“You were amazing tonight,” Niall drawled.

“As were you.”

Niall only sighed, shifting closer till he was nosing at Harry’s sleeve, inhaling deep. His eyes were shut, as he nuzzled the soft cotton of Harry’s printed shirt, unaware of how Harry had gone rigid as he propped his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

Exhaling, Niall gazed up to meet his clear eyes.

“Reckon I can kiss you, Haz?” Niall whispered.

Harry was paralyzed by an unidentifiable emotion of fear, incredulity, exhilaration. Niall was impossibly near; Harry could count the freckles on his cheeks if he wanted. Harry could _kiss_ him if he wanted. His grip on the bottle loosened as it fell to the floor, spilling water in its wake. 

“Not now, Nialler,” Harry swallowed, eyeing at the driver. 

“Later?”

Harry nodded wordlessly before hastily retrieving the bottle.

Niall remained where he was, arm heavy across his tummy, a kiss to Harry’s bicep at every red light. They watched the city go by as the air hummed with the latest Top 40 hits. For a moment, it felt like they were returning home from a date, until the radio played _Little Things_ and Niall looked up at Harry, stifling a laugh.

When they finally pulled into the driveway, Niall grabbed Harry’s wrist and all but flew out the door, dragging Harry into the house.

Without even bothering with the lights, Niall pressed Harry against the wall by the doorway, lips on his before Harry could protest. Niall was kissing him, hard, demanding and relentless as though tonight was meant for this. There was the tang of alcohol underlying the sweetness of his lips which Harry was quick to ignore, what with the hands that had crept beneath his shirt now roaming the expanse of his chest, making him tremble as they brushed over his nipples.

Harry felt like he should say something, but Niall was divesting them both of their button-downs and nipping impatiently at his ear. The darkness made it easier for Harry hide from rationality, to focus solely on how good Niall was making him feel, and how words were irrelevant when Niall had made it his moral obligation that Harry was thoroughly teased.

Niall manoeuvred Harry into his bedroom, pushing and tugging their flushed bodies past furniture and down corridors till Harry felt the back of his legs colliding against hard wood, causing him to stumble.

The kiss was broken as Harry fell onto the bed, but their eyes met for the first time since they stepped through the house. It wasn’t the look of longing that seized Harry’s breath but how beneath the blue, even when Niall was stood between his knees, hair mussed and pulse racing, there was the perpetual question of whether Harry was fine.

Harry reached out, fingers hooking at the belt loops of his jeans, thumb stroking at Niall’s too-visible hip bones. It was a stark reminder of when they were scrawny teenagers, with inflated egos and sky-high confidence, a little eager with their pursuits, much too careless with their emotions. And now, glowing with stardom yet fraught by fame, it was ironic how his self-assurance had plummeted, disillusioned every time he gave away a fragment of his heart.

There in Niall’s bedroom, enveloped in darkness and desire, he was sick of stomping down honesty and scrambling every time the alarm bells rang in his head. He wished he hadn't hesitated despite being acutely aware of how they were now standing at the edge of a precipice of having their relationship change forever.

“You all right?” Niall murmured, fingertips easing away the lines of worry.

Harry only drew Niall forward, never breaking eye contact, before letting his lips brush a kiss to his abdomen.

“You’re home,” he whispered like a confession.

As though the words were lost to the wind, Harry craned his neck to continue kissing his best friend, drawing out a helpless whimper.

It was a moment of reverence that disappeared as quick as it came, like he had not dared to let it linger. God knows what else he would say.

Harry tugged Niall even closer to straddle his thighs, calloused fingers lost in chestnut curls as their bodies shifted to accommodate the other. Harry palmed at Niall’s denim-clad ass, lower bodies moving—by instinct and in pursuit of friction. There was no room for reason; all his senses were dedicated to the man who had him untethered just with a silly smile, an obnoxious laugh, a strum of his guitar.

Harry wondered sometimes about a normal life, a cliché teenage love story of falling in love with your best friend, stealing moments in a cramped bedroom, planning for college. This life they had was worlds apart yet hardly any different. In retrospect, perhaps prom was a birthday party at the end of a world tour, a limo ride was a security car and a night of passion was to take place in a two million-pound home instead of a hotel.

“Fuck, Haz, we wasted so much time,” Niall rasped as their fingers intertwined, burying his face into Harry’s neck and muffling profanities by nipping at the tender skin of Harry’s clavicle. Harry welcomed the bruise that was waiting to bloom; he’d wear it like a badge of honor, now that no one would give him hell for utilizing half a tube of concealer.

“Kissed you, remember?” Harry struggled to speak, “After our first opening party.”

“Wasn’t real. You were wasted.”

“Was I?”

“I remembered the way you taste,” and Harry’s skin prickled at the hitch in his breath, “Like caramel vodka.”

“And it’s real now?”

“Does it count when we’re both drunk? Whether it’s real or a mistake, we should have done this way sooner.”

And just like that, Harry felt he was thrown off a cliff and into an icy sea.

“Niall, stop. Stop, please.”

Niall immediately paused, “Harry? Am I hurting you?”

“Niall,” Harry whispered, adrenaline coursing in question of fight or flight, “We can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“I can’t do this,” Harry said softly, and he hated how he wanted to take the words back as soon as he said them.

“Why not?” Niall asked, confused.

“It’s taking advantage if either one of us isn’t sober,” Harry said carefully.

Niall’s eyes—bright, piercing and heart-wrenching—were glassy, lips ravished red as Harry pulled away. _Niall was right where he wanted him, Niall initiated this, Niall must have loved him, no?_ He couldn’t bear to look at how perfect he was, right there in his arms but still so desperately far.

_This is your chance to tell me that you want this for the same reasons I do._

Shutting his eyes, Harry pressed their foreheads pressed together in an apology, breathing slow and willing his heartbeat to behave. He should feel like a hero for preventing a disaster, but he couldn’t help feeling like he was running headfirst into another. Eyes screwed shut, his chin quivered as he heard Niall sigh, climbing off his lap to lay prone on the bed, defeated.

Harry remained at the edge; burying his face in his hands. His throat narrowed as he bit his cheeks to fight the onrushing tears, coming to terms with the reality of the depth of his feelings. The air hung heavy with a stony silence and for the second time that night, the darkness became a place of hiding. It was easy to pretend that they were both riding the current of intoxication, but the hurt he felt could only be tantamount to how much he truly loved him.

Niall isn't a lightweight; Harry knew Niall wasn’t as wasted as he had him believe. Niall gratuitously uses expletives in his everyday vernacular, but Harry knew Niall’s indicator is when he’s morphed into the loud-mouthed, angry archetype, oscillating between uninhibited and political, or sarcastic and shouty.

That night, Niall was neither. That night, they enjoyed a few drinks, but they were both clearheaded.

Harry just couldn’t accept that this was the way Niall wanted him.

Curling a hand around Harry’s elbow, Niall tugged him backwards till he had his back against the covers.

“I’m tired, Haz,” Niall mumbled, pressing his cheek to Harry’s shoulder again, “Can we just sleep?”

_I’m fine_ , Harry thought as he allowed himself rest, _we’ll be fine._

He only wished he could sleep forever.

6\. ( _cont. from 5_ )

Harry left for home before Niall could awaken. He could have easily taken a shower, borrowed some clothes and shake Niall awake for some grub but he needed time to re-calibrate himself.

Niall appeared at his door a little after noon, fresh and showered and every inch perfect in his typical jeans and t-shirt get-up with a bag of lunch in tow.

“Got us food, pop in a movie?” Niall grinned, not quite complete, the ends of his lips faltering nervously.

Harry shrugged.

“What do we have?”

“Some soup and fresh bread.”

Harry stepped to the side and Niall gingerly crossed the threshold of Harry’s home, avoiding his eyes. He made his way straight to the den, casually remarking on the latest Tomo Campbell’s artwork spanning the wall behind the bar counter. He settled himself on one end of Harry’s leather couch, laying out the takeaway on the coffee table.

“Been meaning to watch The Martian—do you mind?” Harry asked and Niall did not even bat an eye that the film was still screening in the cinemas.

The movie played as they had their soup, chuckling or gasping at all the right moments, pretending the atmosphere between them was far from awkward. Harry never advocated eating before the television—he’d much rather have a conversation really—but spending time without the pressure of having to communicate, let alone look at each other, was a great distraction and the path of least resistance.

“I’m sorry for last night,” Niall cleared his throat, thirty-five minutes into the movie, eyes affixed to the telly.

Perhaps it was easier this way, talking at the television, sound blaring and images moving between them.

Harry swallowed, “Sounds serious, Nialler.”

Niall frowned, “You got me home but you were gone by morning.”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged, eating his side of tortilla chips, “You slept like a log. Had too many shots. Completely knocked you out.”

Niall looked pained at how Harry was downplaying the situation, his grimace apparent in the reflective surface of the ridiculously overpriced non-functional vase before the table.

“Last night was wild, Harry.”

“I know. Ace party.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Now he was annoyed. 

“You weren’t drunk, were you?” Harry stated, a quiet confrontation.

“I wasn’t,” Niall said quietly, “Neither were you.”

Harry nodded. He steeled himself, ready for Niall to apologize.

“Will you tell me? I just need to know. You said I was home?” Niall was nervous but he cleared his throat, “You kissed me, and you said I was home. I understand if you didn’t want me. You played it cool, Haz, you really did. But what did you mean?”

“Of all the things that happened last night, that’s all you have to say?”

“Harry—”

“Niall, don’t make me answer this.”

"What were you expecting, then?"

"An apology!"

Niall heaved, "For wanting to sleep with you?"

"For lying to me!" Harry frowned, still refusing to spare Niall a glance.

“Bit rich coming from you, isn't it? When have you ever been honest with me?”

“I’m always honest with you!”

“It’s not being honest if we can’t talk to each other!” Niall exclaimed, heated and agitated, “We sit in comfortable silence only because you trust me not to poke into your life. But you know what? It’s not honesty if I drive myself mad deciphering what had made you upset a week, a month, _two years_ ago. And it sucks that I will never know because I’ve learnt not to ask, and you will never tell. So, talk to me, will you? Because,” Niall drew in a sharp breath, “Because _I’m_ not OK, Harry.”

As a band, the boys had killed conversations and buried truths for the sake of $300 million-tours. When harsh words were exchanged, they were quick to apologize, sweep it under the rug and go on with the day. They knew everything and nothing about each other, because private matters were allowed to remain private and based on their rambunctious and indulgent lifestyles, it had proven better that way.

But they were not a business anymore and Harry deserved to be selfish.

“I think I love you,” Harry shut his eyes, and it was so easy being truthful, not having to look at Niall and feeling like he was perpetually drowning in that sea of blue, “I always have. And you might not mean to, but I feel loved by you.”

“Haz—”

“No,” Harry interjected, voice wavering, “You know what I mean so please don’t you dare say you do, too. I know you think what happened last night was stupid and a mistake. But I can’t sleep with you because it broke me that that’s all you’re looking for. I couldn’t put myself through that.”

Niall made a soft noise of protest before catching himself from interrupting.

“I hate that I put you through that,” he finally said.

“I don’t need to get wasted and use it as an excuse to want to be with you. I already know I do. For years now,” Harry continued, voice falling, “I don’t want you to stop being real to me, Niall. And if we did what we wanted to do last night, it’d be a lie. You’d become a lie.”

“I’m sorry, Harry. I was wrong for allowing us to go that far.”

“I _chose_ to go that far. For all the wrong reasons.”

Out the corner of his eye, Harry could see Niall toying with the tassels of the cushion, restless and fidgety—a sign of distress, a plea for escape. Harry almost felt guilty for putting him through such a situation but nothing could compare to the lightness he felt from his admission. Harry was prepared for Niall to vanish from his life after the disbandment, anyway, running a music studio or touring with an acoustic band. He wasn't naïve enough to think that Niall would stick around. Harry certainly wasn't going to. Selfishness was freeing.

“It still makes me a coward for doing what I did," Niall sighed, "I thought I was making it easier for the both of us. Like taking a shortcut, so we wouldn’t have to address whatever it was between us. It’s as though some unevolved part of my Neanderthal brain thought I was accelerating the process by having us sleep together.”

“Accelerating what process?”

Harry stole a glance at Niall who had gone very still.

“The process of gathering courage to tell you that I’m terrified of leaving the band. More than that,” Niall breathed sharply, “So much more than that, Harry, I’m fucking terrified of losing you. Because I think I’m in love with you, too.”

Harry gripped the TV remote in his hand.

“I told you I was stupid,” Niall scrubbed at his face, shooting Harry an anxious smile, “This is why we fit, huh? Because we’re both shit at talking about our feelings.”

“Since when?”

“I don’t know,” Niall sighed, “It started off as just, awe? That I never got over since the band formed. When we became friends, it made everything harder. There wasn’t even jealousy when we were seeing other people—maybe I had gotten fucking good at keeping my feelings dormant? Or numbing myself? Like self-preservation, really. I don’t know. All I know is that I hated it when you were sad. I wanted you to be happy all the time—fuck everything else. Even if it meant listening to crap records or attending a stupid party, I’d do it because it’s you, you know? And four tours later, we’re breaking up when we haven’t had the chance to properly begin.”

“Niall,” Harry said, voice strangled, “Reckon I can kiss you now?”

Niall moved to the other end of the couch where Harry was, settling himself into the curve of his side and rising to hug his neck. It was an embrace like any other, as familiar as a warm blanket in a freezing tour bus or a round of an impeccable vocal warm-up before a concert.

Niall pulled away, eyes falling to the mark on the slope of Harry’s shoulder, memories of the night before as clear as day. He lifted a hand to run his thumb over the bruise, tender and careful, as though Harry would disappear like a dream if he pushed too hard.

“I really like you,” Niall whispered, and Harry swallowed as he leaned in, noses brushing, shyly chuckling as their eyes met.

Playful as their dynamics were, they chased each other’s smiles, breaths mingling till Niall finally pressed his lips against Harry’s together in a kiss.

They were on hiatus, at long last released from the transient environment of tours but would soon be jetting off and shuttling between cities for their solo projects. For once in their careers, their itineraries and timelines were at odds and conflicting, but Harry had never felt more at home, wrapped up in each other. 

**Author's Note:**

> Brownie points if you can spot the moments in Parts 1 to 5 where Harry holds back from making his feelings known :)


End file.
